The federal men finally emerged from the tent and fanned out, most walking off, busy men with specific government duties. Three remained. The chief stopped his pacing and went right over to the lead agent. He said to him, “Seven-thirty, for Christ’s sake.”
The lead agent showed no concern at all. “Have your men line up,” he said.
Brian braced himself against the rain and stepped right into what became the front line. Other grumbling officers, including those from nearby Crater and Little Elk and Simston, drifted into some order beside and behind him.
The lead agent was older, with a high, serious forehead under an FBI cap and serious lines in his face. He stood upright and tall and his pullover rain-thing hung straight down to his knees. Behind him and to his side stood the black marshal with the military cadence, the impressive one who had first gotten off that bus. His uniform and big, crossed arms were blurred under a long, transparent plastic poncho. The other FBI agent, the one named Perkins, had a plain face of lightly colored freckles, and a disappearing way about him that made him easily forgotten. They were none of them under the age of forty. They looked like ordinary men, and only the marshal seemed to be carrying a holster bulge. Nothing like you see in the movies.
The lead agent waited without expression even after the local men were all assembled and still, as though collecting his thoughts. “My name is Special Agent John Banish,” he said above the dark rain. “Before we begin, I want to make a few things clear. I understand there has been some disagreement as to our methods here. Some mitigating circumstances that some of you think we as outsiders may be overlooking. If anyone has anything to say, an opposing viewpoint or a suggestion you think might help — now is the time.”
That was a little surprising — their being so open to suggestions. There were some shifts in posture in the lines. Some turned heads.
Agent Banish said, “Speak up,” his voice clear and stern through the rain, yet mildly encouraging.
Sergeant Polchrist somehow was nudged forward without anybody actually touching him. Brian, looking straight ahead, saw the sarge only peripherally. Some un taken vote had nominated him spokesman for the corps.
“I think maybe Ables is getting a bad shake up there,” Sergeant Polchrist said. “Sure, he shouldn’ta shot a cop, but who can’t say he weren’t provoked.”
Agent Banish nodded. He was looking off somewhere else and considering this. Something about the whole thing wasn’t right, but Brian couldn’t tell yet what was happening. Agent Banish said, “Fair enough. Anyone else?” There was clear silent support for Polchrist’s statement in the form of more posture changes, but no one else actually took a step forward. Agent Banish said, “How about a show of hands.”
Polchrist’s went up into the rain — he being the leader now — and then another, then more. Agent Banish was having trouble seeing the whole group. “Hands, move out to the side,” he suggested.
One by one, a total of seven of the thirty sergeants and officers stepped out of formation to the right. Agent Banish waited until they were all gathered near the tent. Then he said, “You seven are dismissed.”
At first it wasn’t clear. Dismissed from the meeting? Then Agent Banish said, “Next. Three men in a cruiser waved to me on the mountain road earlier today.” He scanned the group and pointed out the three men. “I was dressed in civilian clothes without any outward identification. Dismissed.”
Now it was serious. It was obvious that those three were off the mountain for good. Shit, Brian thought. Shit. Shit. Like the first hour of basic training again — not knowing at all what they wanted from you, and it feeding your general fear. Whatever happened, whatever this Agent Banish was up to, Brian was keeping his head low.
“Now, married men,” he was saying, “men with families. Hands.”
Brian didn’t know. He thought it might be a trick, like some kind of reversal. Like all the married men would stay. But he didn’t know what the right answer was. His right hand ground into his thigh.
In the rain around Brian, hands went up slowly, almost timidly. He would kick himself fifty times and probably forever if he was wrong.
Agent Banish waited until everybody had made up his mind. “Negotiations could drag on for days,” he said. “No place for a man with a wife and responsibilities. All dismissed.”
Brian breathed. The general reaction of the men was stunned silence, their soaked bodies moving through the dwindling ranks and out to the side. He couldn’t tell how many of them were left in formation — many less than half — afraid even to turn his head. But it wasn’t over yet. Now Agent Banish was walking down the line, eyeing each man one at a time. He was saying, seemingly at random, “Dismissed.”
Brian straightened himself up. He tried to look as determined as he could, he tried to look impressive. Agent Banish was coming. Brian was second to last in the front line. He squared his shoulders and tipped up his chin. Then he remembered his wedding band.
This was a man who would notice a thing like that. And there were the two others, Agent Perkins and the black marshal, watching everybody at once.
Brian flicked at the ring with his thumb. It didn’t budge. He was trying hard not to be noticed. Agent Banish was coming. Brian became flushed, his mindset suddenly thrown from wanting to be chosen to not wanting to get caught. He never took the ring off. He never had a reason to.
He flicked at it again, and rubbed. The black marshal was staring right at him. Agent Banish was approaching and saying, “Dismissed. Dismissed.” Why would this FBI man really care if a cop was married or not? Brian made a fist and dug at his skin.
It budged. The ring turned on the base of his finger. He was prying at it, twisting it over and over. Agent Banish was close. Brian opened his hand and worked the ring loose and up to his middle knuckle, prying it, pulling on the thing. He wrenched it up over the joint and off his finger and slipped it into his raincoat pocket just as Agent Banish dismissed the man before him.
Then he was there. He was right there in front of Brian. The rain was loud on his shoulders and spilling off his cap brim and down into his face. Brian tried not to look at him directly, but failed. Agent Banish stood there before him like a ghost. His face was deep-lined and shadowed, breath steaming out of his nose. His eyes caught what little light there was and drilled it into Brian. These were eyes that had seen a lot. Brian felt as though he were nothing to them. He knew he was breathing too much, too fast. He feared his mouth was hanging wide open. So much steam in front of his face, he thought he might be melting. Agent Banish was looking right at him.
Then Agent Banish passed on to the last man and dismissed him. Brian did not know what to do. It took the greatest effort of his life just to remain standing there and not jump up or fall over. He was suddenly exhilarated. He had merely not been dismissed, and yet it felt as though he had been chosen. He wanted to know why. He wanted to know, who was this man Banish?
His breath created a fog around his head. Agent Banish was in front again, speaking now, and Brian fought to concentrate, his mind whirring on and on. “Like it or not, you are all here as volunteers,” Agent Banish was saying. “This is a federal matter now. I am an FBI hostage negotiator, the case agent for this operation.”
Chief Moody had been waiting along the sidelines, becoming increasingly pissed off. “Negotiator?” he said now, coming forward through the dark rain, his coat collar up around his ears. His voice was full of exaggerated disbelief. “What’s this here? We don’t truck with criminals in these parts.”